Boris was the only guest who found it necessary to leave the inn, but just for a few hours, he promised. He had several business-related obligations to take care of early Tuesday morning, he'd told Stone, but he would return later in the day. With the death of his business partner, there'd understandably be many details he'd need to handle in the near future. Stone assured Boris he'd be allowed to come and go as needed.
"Pardon my soliloquy, but I am appalled by the iniquitous deportment evinced by a member of the Society. It's execrable!" Boris said.
Later I asked Stone to decipher the statement. He thought a moment and said, "Boris was thinking murdering Prescott was a shitty thing for someone to do."
"Now that's putting it in layman's terms," I said.
"The question is, why did Boris indicate it was one of the guests who killed Horatio? Does he know something, or is he just making natural assumptions?"
"I wondered about his implication, too. And his attitude seems odd to me."
Boris Dack's behavior seemed too unfeeling for a man professing to be devastated by the loss of his friend and associate. I placed him high on my list of suspects and was eager to delve deeper into his business "relationship" with Mr. Prescott.
* * *
"Lexie, can you come into the kitchen for a minute?" Stone asked. "I've got something I want to discuss with you for a few minutes. Crystal can take care of the guests while you take a much-deserved break. You'll wear yourself ragged, if you aren't careful."
I was pouring Earl Grey into a dainty little teacup, like a well-trained servant, and as I turned toward Stone's voice, I was haughtily dismissed by a wave of Rosalinda's blue-veined hand. She and Mrs. Poffenbarger were enjoying brunch in the parlor, away from the distasteful discussions about the dreadful murder that had occurred right under their upturned noses that morning. Ms. Swift was sipping her fourth cup of the fragrant tea. I noticed she'd added something to it from a small, sterling silver flask she'd extracted from her sequined purse. Patty Poffenbarger, dressed in something resembling a purple, polka-dotted pup tent, was preoccupied with stuffing the last of a half-dozen poppy-seed muffins in her mouth.
"What's up?" I asked Stone when I entered the kitchen.
He handed me a cup of espresso, which he knew I preferred over tea or weak coffee. "Have a seat," he said. "You're still serving 'your highnesses,' I see."
"Yes," I said. "And what a couple of snooty old windbags they are. If I hear about that damned encore at Rosalinda's last recital one more time, I'm going to—"
"I know, I know. I'm sorry, honey. I really didn't intend for you to have to serve and wait on these people. Crystal's doing her best—"
"—I know. Crystal's terrific, but she can't be in six places at the same time. And I don't mind, Stone. Really I don't. I find their high-faluting behavior kind of amusing, in a way. And besides, I owe you a favor for all you've done for me."
"Lexie, you don't owe me anything. I can hire another—"
"No, that's not necessary, and I didn't mean it quite the way it sounded, Stone. But let's just say I'm enjoying myself and I want to help and leave it at that. Now what did you want to discuss with me?"
"Well, okay, if you're sure. It was never my intention to have you serving as Crystal's assistant. Anyway, I spoke with the investigating team upstairs and found out a few interesting details that I thought you'd want to hear."
"Like what?"
"First of all, the only fingerprints they could find in the room besides the victim's were the expected ones—yours, mine and Crystal's. So that's of no help. But they did make an observation that might prove useful."
"What was that?"
"As you may have noticed, we got about two inches of snow last night. The snow fell between midnight and three A.M." There was a certain quality of smugness in Stone's voice I'd never heard before. I knew he was enjoying the resurgence of our sleuthing partnership. He enjoyed a challenge as much as I did.
"And?" I prompted.
"There were no footprints in the snow between the house and the street. Just a few incidental prints between here and the house next door, leading up to the front porch from the side yard rather than the sidewalk. The investigators took a few photos of the prints, but don't feel too strongly they have anything to do with the murder. They think the footprints may have been from the shoes of an officer who reported to the scene when I called nine-one-one for assistance."
"So, what's the significance?"
"No sign of intruders. Don't you see? It looks very likely that Mr. Prescott was killed by someone staying in the inn. Otherwise, there'd most likely be footprints leading out to the street."
"Oh."
"And also there are no signs of a forced entry. I remember checking all the doors last night after the guests retired to their rooms and once again, just before I went to my own room. That makes it even more probable that the killer is among our own little covey of quail," Stone said. He watched me as his words soaked in and then asked, "Got any thoughts or ideas?"
Did he mean other than the fact I'd be rearranging the furniture in my room tonight so that it was all piled strategically in front of the door? I'd also most likely be placing a fingernail file under my pillow because it's the closest thing I possessed to a lethal weapon. Gee, and I had thought insomnia was a problem last night?
"Well, Stone, I know I didn't like Mr. Dack's attitude or his demeanor this morning when he found out his business partner had been killed. He expressed feelings of sorrow and grief, but he didn't show a lot of physical anguish at the news. And he didn't appear to be overly stunned, either. He seemed a little too matter-of-fact about the whole thing to me. And why did he oversleep? Could he have been up doing dastardly deeds in the middle of the night?"
"It's possible, I guess. But how could a guy kill someone in cold blood and then slip back into bed for a few extra zees?"
"I don't know, but I think we need to have a talk with him. Feel him out if we can."
"I agree, but we're not official investigators, Lexie. He's under no obligation to tell us anything, you know. We'll have to approach this in a clever fashion."
"Oh, I think we can find clever ways to get the answers we're looking for."
"Hmm. Why does your tone of voice alarm me?" Stone asked.
"No guts, no glory."
"Glory's for young guys who are in better shape than I am," Stone said. He lifted up the carafe to warm up my coffee, and as he poured it, he asked, "Say, did you know Rosalinda Swift was once engaged to Horatio?"
"You've got to be kidding!"
"No, it's true. Or, at least it's true according to Robert Fischer, who's known Horatio for years. He said the two were engaged for several months about fifteen years ago, but Horatio broke it off when Rosalinda refused to sign a prenuptial agreement. Since the engagement debacle, the two have pretty much just ignored each other—in public, anyway. But Robert thinks there's a chance Rosalinda's carried a grudge against Horatio all these years for degrading her by even asking her to sign the agreement, and then embarrassing her even more by calling off the engagement. Perhaps she decided to exact a little revenge—retribution for the public humiliation she suffered."
"He humiliated her and embarrassed her to the point that fifteen years later she put a slug in his brain? No, I don't really think so, Stone. A crime of passion that takes place fifteen years after the fact? I just don't buy it. No scorned woman would wait that long to exact justice."
"Okay. I think it's a little far-fetched, too, but it wouldn't hurt to check into Rosalinda if we get a chance. We don't want to make any assumptions that could prove to be wrong."
"You're right. We probably should try to do an inquiry into what kind of relationship each of the guests had with Mr. Prescott. We don't want to overlook some seemingly insignificant detail that later turns out to be a key factor in his death."
* * *
I went to my room for my Minolta Maxxum camera. I wanted to get my own photos of the footpri
nts outside, just in case they became significant later on in the investigation. Unfortunately, when I went outside to take the pictures, I discovered the sun had melted most of the early morning snow. Only two footprints still remained, one from a left shoe and one from a right. They were in the shade of a shrub on the north side of the front porch, where the snow was only beginning to melt in the late morning's warmth. A warm front was pushing through, I'd heard on the radio, and more seasonal temperatures were forecast for the early-spring day. The front would be short-lived, however, with another winter storm on the horizon.
I photographed the footprints from several angles, noticing the right print looked misshapen, narrower than the left print just inches away. The right portion of the footprint must have been melting faster, I concluded, perhaps from having less weight applied to that side when the print was made. From the placement of the two footprints, it appeared the individual making them had walked to the side of the inn's front porch from the neighbor's yard or the carport, while staying on the red concrete landscaping stones bordering several raised flower gardens, until just before reaching the porch. The landscaping stones were almost dry and completely free of snow. Between the neighbor's yard and the flowerbeds was the Alexandria Inn's carport, where two of the squad cars had parked earlier. As the investigating team had surmised, it seemed probable the prints belonged to a responding officer who had pulled up to the carport upon arrival. If so, the officer had smaller than average feet, for the footprints were not made by large feet. It shouldn't be difficult to determine if any of the responding officers had small feet. The suburban town of Rockdale had only four or five police officers on its payroll.
I jotted a quick note on a pad of paper I'd crammed in the pocket of my sweatshirt jacket. I wanted to remember to ask Stone if, by chance, he'd noticed any tire marks in the driveway or carport prior to the arrival of the officers. It didn't seem logical to me that someone with the intention of breaking into the inn to kill a guest would blatantly steer his car up the drive and park it in the carport while executing the murder. It was more logical to park on the next block and sneak up to the house from the alley behind the building. I decided to check the back of the house. Because most of the backyard was still in the shadow of the house, the snow there had barely begun to melt, and there were no signs of footprints leading to or from the alley or anywhere near the back porch or sidewalk.
I snapped a couple of photos of the undisturbed layer of snow blanketing the backyard before noticing Robert Fischer sitting in a padded, wrought-iron chair on the back porch. He wiggled a couple of fingers at me, and I wiggled a few back. He was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit like you'd expect to see on a member of a chain gang picking up trash along a busy interstate. He'd worn a brown suit when I'd first seen him that morning, but he had changed into something more comfortable. A well-worn pipe dangled from his lips. Mr. Fischer looked very calm and collected, as if murder were an every day event in his life.
Thinking this would be a perfect opportunity to pump him for information, I walked over and sat in the other porch chair identical to his.
"How are you doing? I'm Lexie. You're Mr. Fischer, aren't you?"
"Yes. Robert Fischer. And I'm doing fine, young lady. How are you?"
"I'm okay. Are you staying outside to try to escape the hubbub inside?"
"Yes. I didn't figure I had much to tell the investigators that would be of any help. I didn't see anything, didn't hear anything," he said. He laughed in a mocking manner, and added, " 'Course I take my hearing aids out when I go to bed at night, and without them I couldn't hear an elephant fart in a metal bucket."
I smiled and then noticed there was no smoke coming from Mr. Fischer's pipe as he inhaled repeatedly on its stem.
"Your fire's gone out, Mr. Fischer," I said, pointing at the barrel of his pipe.
"Robert, please, or Bert if you'd like. What's your name again, little lady? My memory is not as good as it used to be."
"Alexandria Starr, but please call me Lexie."
"Lexie, ahhh, I see. Hence, the 'Alexandria' Inn."
"Yes." I smiled at the congenial old man.
"Well, Lexie, I gave up smoking about a dozen years ago. Or, I should say, I gave up tobacco, but not the pipe. Got tired of Ernestine yapping at me about the health hazards of smoking, and I decided to avenge myself by outliving her and marrying some fluffy, big-breasted twenty-year-old after the old nag's dead and gone."
I wasn't sure how to respond to that remark, so I didn't. Instead, I smiled inanely and nodded my head. Eventually, sensing my discomfort, the octogenarian chuckled and told me he'd only been joking with me. Suddenly an expression of chagrin flashed across his face as he realized his inappropriate choice of words. He waved his hand back and forth, as if trying to erase the callous remark about his wife, and said, "Please forgive me for being so insensitive. I meant that as a joke. I wasn't thinking—"
"That's okay. But Ernestine's right you know," I interrupted, excusing his untimely quip in an attempt to ease his embarrassment. "Smoking is a slow form of suicide, and I'm glad you were able to quit. I kicked the nasty habit a few years ago myself. I walked around with a lollipop in my mouth for weeks, until the inside of my cheek was almost permanently puckered, so I imagine still having the pipe in your mouth, even without actually smoking tobacco in it, makes it easier for you to—"
"Nah, not really," he cut in. "I just happen to think the pipe makes me look more sophisticated."
I laughed, but Robert didn't, so I wasn't sure if he was joking again or not, but I decided to get down to the business at hand.
"Stone said you told him that Mr. Prescott and Ms. Swift were engaged to marry years ago. Is that true?"
"Uh-huh."
"Seems like such an unlikely match to me."
"Well, no, not really. Our Ms. Swift was a remarkably attractive woman in her prime, and Horatio appreciated anyone in a skirt who had more curves than brains. Rosalinda had her own reasons to find the partnership attractive, one being that she was heavily mortgaged at the time. She'd borrowed a lot from the bank to make costly home renovations and was actively looking for a solution to her money problems. And as a former banker, I know that to be the truth. I handled both of their accounts the last year or two before I retired. Somehow Horatio discovered she was a gold-digger, and he closed the mine, so to speak."
"How did they meet? Do you know?" I asked.
"They were both divorced, and both owned homes in the historic Museum Hill District of St. Joseph, houses dating back to the late eighteen hundreds. Rosalinda's home is a Victorian like this one, designed by the locally famous European architect, E.J. Eckel, and Horatio's was an Italianate mansion. Still a part of his vast holdings, last I knew. I'm fairly certain the two met through the Historical Society. Like Horatio, there are a number of people who live in St. Joseph but belong to the Rockdale Historical Society, preferring the less formal, more intimate atmosphere of a smaller club."
"Is that how you originally met them, as well? Through the Historical Society?"
"Rosalinda, yes, but Horatio, no. I'd known him for years. Like I said, until I retired in 1985, I was a loan officer at the Rockdale Bank and Trust, and Horatio's been doing business with that bank forever, I think. Even before I took over his and Rosalinda's accounts, Horatio was on the board of trustees at the bank."
"Were you friends?"
"Acquaintances," he said, in a manner indicating distaste. "But never friends."
"You didn't care for him?" I asked, maintaining a casual, conversational tone.
"No, not particularly. And I certainly didn't trust him or have a lick of respect for him."
"Why's that?" I was careful to be interested, but not notably so. I knew I had a tendency to nail people to the backs of their chairs with my single-minded intensity if I didn't hold myself back.
"Long story, but about twenty years ago I was endeavoring to purchase a large parcel of land in downtown St. Joseph. Perhaps you've n
oticed that vacant lot right on Main Street? I thought it'd be a good investment for my retirement. I'd made an offer and was waiting to see if the buyer was going to accept it or make a counter-offer. Horatio just happened to come into the bank that day and asked me to go to lunch. We'd had lunch together on several other occasions, so this was not an unusual invitation. During the meal, I casually mentioned my intentions, as well as the amount I'd offered the buyer, and the reasons I thought the property would greatly appreciate in value in the following few years. It would cost me nearly every dime I could scrape together, but I thought it would be worth the sacrifice later on.
"To my surprise, I received a call later that day. I was told the buyer had taken the property off the market. Naturally, I was disappointed, but I accepted it as something that just wasn't meant to happen. I didn't give it a lot of thought at the time. I eventually invested the money in some stocks that performed well over the years and netted me a tidy profit."
Robert grew silent, pausing to take a few smokeless puffs on his pipe.
"Go on," I urged when he didn't continue speaking.
"Well, come to find out, Horatio bought the property the very afternoon that we'd lunched together. Offered the buyer a few hundred bucks more than I had for the property, and the buyer accepted his offer. Of course, a hundred bucks went a lot further in those days. But the buyer hadn't actually taken it off the market. He'd just sold it to the highest bidder, who just happened to know exactly how much it'd take to outbid me."
"Wow, that was a low blow, wasn't it?"
"Rather unprofessional and underhanded, yes. But par for the course for Prescott, from what other folks have since told me. I was only one of many people who have been swindled or outwitted by him over the years. Even his business partner, Boris, claims Prescott tried to bilk him out of many thousands of dollars, his share made on some foreign commodities that D&P Enterprises had invested in and sold for a hefty profit. And it's not like I'm under any illusion that Boris Dack is a saint, either."
Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set Page 20